In the Hands of Providence
by LawrenceRAMoneybag
Summary: In a great turn of events, armies are called to battle for their own. One fought fought for God's Glory, the other for God's Kingdom on Earth. As battles unfold, they think about why they fight, and who they're fighting.
1. Prologue

Prologue

**March 1st 1848**

A cold shallow pond lay silent as the cloudy sky hung overcast, teeming brilliant with mist and circumstance, making it impossible to see the sun, to see sunlight. By noon, the cloud had formed so thickly that the atmosphere was so dark as if the afternoon moon had already come up and the sun dawning it's last. The pond rippled. Raindrops started to fall onto the earth, rocking the still sleeping more comfortable with the sound of rain.

Major Jonathan 'Skipper' Eswald sighed and wiped the sweat of his brow as he rode on the road on his feet, tired and weary. He had been dropped off by a horse and wagons in Richmond, 8 miles from his home, courtesy of the War department, for all Mexican-American war veterans. He was a young major who had just had his first war combat. Earned his name 'Skipper' of taking command of a company of 20 men in such command and force. He was praised by his peers, and disapproved by his commanders. Though the thoughts of war were still buzzing in his head, he didn't feel much of it, he was wracked with the much more serious loss for him.

Major Eswald killed his own commanding officer with several shots to the torso, accidentally confusing him with an important enemy officer. The thought of killing his own was bad enough, but it became worse with the treating of him afterwards.

His commanders treated him as he would just plainly be disposed off, thought him of pure rubbish. Completely out of the league of the army. Which destroyed him on the inside. As soon as his peers heard of it, they were horrified and disgusted, and abandoned him as like was his own company. He felt that he had no other thing in the world to be of purpose,

Skipper on the way, saw an orchard of peaches. Stared at it, with much thought and awe in what now to do. Was he going to do what he wanted? Or let Providence figure out for him .With much vigor, he jumped over the fence surrounding the trees, and buried himself within the center of the plants. He stood up, then without much haste, took out his loaded pistol from his holster. Sighing, he looked at the firearm as if it were fading golf, precious for a time, then it would be gone.

The major thought about what he was going to do, how it would effect his family, or friends, if he had left. He continued to think in much great pain of what he did in those months ago. The bloody stare of his commander, the gore flowing from his commanding officer's mouth, and the soulless interpretation of his death as he fell to the ground, gasping for air, an attempt that would just hurry his death, and add to his mortal wounds already killing him fast.

As Skipper's own hand twitched in the thought of what he was thinking of doing, he remembered his commanding officer's own hand, moving in small gestures feeling around, something maybe that would help him, but all he felt were caps, rifles and the dead bodies of his own men.

There were footsteps outside the orchard, Skipper shrunk down, crouching behind a neatly plowed mound. The Orchard door opened. With much unease, Skipper pointed the pistol at his head, faltering and ready to shoot his life away, until, he heard no footsteps in the quickly dampening orchard sod. It was just the wind, just of the thoughts of his commander, Colonel Benton, as he spoke aloud to the space and wind, thinking they where the voices of his own husband and children, saying goodbye.

The hesitation of the near suicide rung loudly and wildly in the major Skipper's head, the easy hesitation and the shaking of the hand of Colonel Benton as he tried to stand up and shoot more of the enemy, or probably the man who shot him, and order by himself never fulfilled easily, never fulfilled uneasily, never fulfilled at all.

With one swift click, he pulled the trigger.

Click.

Only a small snap was heard, no lead was launched from the barrel of his pistol, no life taken away from a misfit of his surroundings. Mercy plagued him, as if he couldn't bear the guilt crushing the insides and structure of his dignity and pride. A slow and painful craziness driving him mad.

Jonathan 'Skipper' Eswald would not take his life that day. All to the sake of what divine providence there is that kept him conscious and well. He swallowed his breath, his face covered in tears, but his loud sobs drowned by the hard rain, large thick raindrops smacking on the dirt and grass.

The fury in Benton's eyes as he choked in the horrid smoke of gunpowder and heard the near yelling of advancing Mexican soldiers almost to him. Benton opened his mouth and said to Skipper,

_"I always expected this from a traitor. Useless…"_

Skipper stood up, the entire front side of him covered in mud, he walked to the dirt road and trudged in the depressing mud, nearly knee high. Skipper tugged his cap and thought about what occurred in that one moment in the downfall of his Commander, Colonel Benton. With will, he fell down on the muddy road, his head facing the cloudy sky as rain fell on him and screamed out, his voice echoing through the horizon . The wind and rain made him nearly sightless, the near vision of Colonel Benton. He would never forget. Never forget what happened at Veracruz.

Major Eswald reached his steady two-story home with dried mud on his shirt and pants. He was completely winded and needed some rest before he would fall to the ground, unconscious. His eyes were red with soreness and his feet as well with a pain unbearable. He leaned against the door coughing.

"Sir, you must not tire yourself with such indignities, you must relax, but you must bathe first" spoke his house servant, a nice kind lady, with years wearing down on her with the usage of being a slave.

The servant's name was Catherine. She was in her older years but she had a strong voice and the determination and will power above an average person.

But the only thing she would be doing was sweeping the floor and wiping the table.

"I'm alright…" replied the battered veteran with blood running down his forehead. "I'm alright."

Catherine walked slowly to Skipper and took his blue cap off as well as his coat and hung took them to the laundry basket. Despite being a servant, she had the uttermost respect and kindness to the family which she served, for they secretly treated her with the respect that she deserved.

Skipper's wife suddenly came running to him from the kitchen, hearing the talking and the door opening. With the most care, she hugged her husband.

Skipper did not hug back, for he did not have the strength in his arms, but he did close his eyes and remembered he had a family outside the army, outside the war, outside the death of Colonel Benton.

"Marlene… what's for dinner tonight?" was his first statement to her getting home.

Marlene smiled at Skipper's remark, her own clothes stained with the wet and mud of his.

"Porridge as usual"

He stifled a bit of laughter and sat down at a wooden chair, careful enough not to feel the uncomforting sense of sitting down wet and muddy on a cloth chair.

But in the most comforting thought, he remembered, he was home.

**December 24th 1860**

Bells rang from a high tower that span across a small lively town on Maine. Birds sang and the scene was complete pomp. The prideful flag of the United States wove on a high flag pole that seemed to shimmer like a golden rod in a quite surprisingly sunny day in the Maine winter. Here and there were the footsteps of a student carrying his books. Nothing could compare to the sight of seeing all this in high grandness.

A College of average size fit utterly perfect on a low hill surrounded by a thin copse of trees. Stagecoaches came and left as they dropped or picked up students or teachers for various reasons most likely important.

To learn or teach here at this snowy college was a blessing in all the reach, as well as the chance of a lifetime. The climate was harsh at times but the suffering of illness or non-well-being would pay off with a good deal of knowledge at the hands and mind of the student taught.

It was nothing but tranquil learning, except for one science professor, with the class bandwidth of 15, who thinks he missed all the golden opportunities in his life. His name was Fitz John Kowalski, known simply as Kowalski or John by the other teachers well known at the Institute, Mr. Kowalski by his students, or vulgar he thought, Mr. K.

He sat at his cold desk with a single apple in his hand, with one small bite. Kowalski stared at the quite normal fruit in a quite odd way. He thought of what would've happened. He seldom thought what worse happenings there could've been if he didn't choose to be a scholar. He didn't think there was much worse happenings. What he thought was either if he'd chosen the right choice as being a scholar, or much better of as a graduate at West Point.

He tugged at his wool jacket and sighed with all complexities still within him. The professor took a sip from his glass, and sighed again with much difficulty. Kowalski tapped on his desk as he heard the footsteps of his students come near close by. And with the most uneasiness in feeling, he stood up, and wrote on the board behind him the chapters the students he taught had to read. He tightened himself up, looked toward the empty desks in front of him and breathed slowly.

The door opened.

Students came pouring in as everyday, he expected with their overused pencils to a small bit, or freshly new pencils, along with papers and books.

They sat down surprisingly professionally. But as professional as their seating was, it was normal and highly expected by the teachers. The college endured and aspired with greatness and pomp only to that the students and teachers follow on to walking and sitting, standing, and even posture in correct and great discipline and dignity.

Kowalski rubbed his head and coughed. With that, there was the reply of one student.

"Mr. Kowalski, troublesome winter these times?"

The young professor nodded and cleared his throat lightly.

"Now, in the spite of the great segregation of countries and continents upon the earth, there lays the fact that many people are alike. And with that posture of likeliness, we must remember the fact that we trust the ones by their inside, not by their outside. Not by their voice, their taste, their religion. No. That happens on behalf of the constitution. Freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, now can someone answer this question"

There was a pause in the room, replaced then by the shuffle of papers and the turning of pages of books.

"Can there be equality with diversity in the venue of color, and nationality, and racial profile?"

There was more of a pause, and more of a dead silence than before.

"Of course. There is no matter, if your skin is black, or white, one man is equivalent to another."

One hand raised.

Kowalski spoke, "Yes?"

"If there is equality in the diversity of black and white skin, then how can we tolerste the rising tide of slavery in the South?"

The professor nodded, sat at his desk, profoundly stupefied at the question. Not because it didn't make sense, it did make sense. It wasn't because out of topic, it was in topic. It was because the question was so unexpected, yet so relevant in the time.

Kowalski paused, and looked at the window to his left, at the college courtyard where a thick blanket of snow lay. The light outside suddenly got darker, and there was too an unexpected frost covering the window. It started to snow.

Kowalski sat down on a stool in his home right in front of the forest. In one hand, a piece of wood, and in the other, a small carving knife. Calmly thinking, he whittled away pieces of wood, letting the shaving fall on the floor.

Small strokes. To big slides of the knife. The piece of wood began to morph and change.

After a while, It became possible to see what the object of point was. It was a deer, a broken looking deer that gained only one antler.

Kowalski looked at his piece of art, admiring it, but not thinking much of what it really meant, or why he even carved a deer. Was it because he saw so many? Or was it because of a deeper meaning?

Out of the silence of his admiration for the little piece of carved wood, the door opened with much sound. Kowalski's brother, Richard, entered with two rifles and a dozen boxes of ammunition.

"John, um, uh, there are reports of some deer- uh, out there. Wouldn't- wouldn't be nice if-"

"Richard, I would like you to talk clearly and fluently for me, alright?"

His brother paused, stopped his stammering. Simply, he nodded his head, and continued.

"Wouldn't it be nice, if we went hunting today?", Richard spoke, wiping the snow of his coat, and starting to caress his sore cold ears.

The professor sighed, held tightly his newly carved deer, looking at it with much thought. His deer seemed to plead with it's small wooden hollow eyes for something. For some difference in the world. Kowalski didn't know what difference it should be, or what he should do, but in a matter of time, he opened his mouth again.

"I'll make that difference"

His brother looked at him oddly, raising one eyebrow.

"What? Difference? What do you mean difference?" Richard said in such an obstinate tone. Scratching his head, he sat down on the chair beside Kowalski.

The professor lifted is head.

"Nothing, nothing… I was just… thinking…". The college teacher shook his head, thinking, 'No, no… to simple…' .

"So will you go hunting or not?"

The professor looked at his with his tired, weary eyes and said,

"I will"

It snowed a good amount for deer, for the fortunate point for them was that the snow lessened the vision for the hunters that evening, it made it easier for the deer, so easy that they could've just lived their normal way of life instead of cringing in fear of getting shot.

The trees in snow shock nearly muted the sounds of light hoofs and shaking bodies in the forest, all that hunters could here was the calm precipitation.

Kowalski held his rifle steadily and stopped. He looked around for any signs of life or deer. He thought about the stillness surrounding him, fascinated the professor, made him really think what was going on in the world. The puzzle of nature seemed to shun him there as a wrong piece, but Kowalski tried to fit in as much as possible.

The professor made quite a noise with the crunching of his old boots against the 6 inch deep snow.

Spite the sound of thinking how easy and soft that noise was to make, it was actually very loud and difficult to walk.

It was very cold that evening, every sound, every flinch of life seemed to be very alive in those instances when he walked about the field of snow and trees, that were, what he thought, just figments of the forest, unimportant, unvalued by some.

Kowalski would feel the slow falling of snow, drifting around him, stinging his skin and chilling him to the core, he felt the hot feeling in his torso, the lucky part of his body, mocking the exposed skin being numbed by the extreme Maine winter.

The professor sat down, sighed as did, and took out the carved deer from his pocket, looked at the detail and the expression, every little thing that made the carving of just a knife and some wood.

Suddenly, there was a sound, a light stroke against a fir tree, not sixty feet ahead of him. It was a gray deer staring there, with it's own leg caught in a rosebush. Kowalski thought of the pain the deer suffered, the thorns pricking inside the skin, almost to the bone.

He looked at the deer, then he looked at his carving with great care. And with that same level of gentleness, he put the carving back in his pocket and set the rifle to the side.

The deer was more frightened now of the gun, not him. But neither of them was more baffled than Richard, watching from behind a few trees.

Kowalski took out the same knife he used to carve the deer and nodded at the innocent animal, as the animal's own pleading eyes looked at him.

The professor looked at the leg stuck to the rosebush and saw the blood painfully dripping onto the snow. Kowalski was aware of the wolves, and what they would do to animals wounded or stranded. Quickly, he sawed the surrounding twigs off the deer's leg and nodded once again. And just like that, the deer bounded off.

"John, what was-, why did you- what the- What was that?" Richard muttered as he struggled out of the plants and trees.

The professor looked as him oddly with a a gaze trying to ignore the falling snow.

"Excuse me? Speak slowly, then tell me what I did"

"You let the deer go!", Richard's hands tightened more against the rifle in his own choking words. "you could've- you could've- ugh!" he said with his hands to his forehead now.

"I did what was proper, I set him free"


	2. 1 Kowalski

**1. KOWALSKI**

He stood on the hill waiting for a sign of smoke, a sign of a home at least. His parent's home. His brother stood behind him with an old dysfunctional flintlock and his own. It was Kowalski, the edge of his ears burning and his cheeks red, the college professor breathed in and out to see his own breath startle back and forth.

He began to feel a dampness seeping through his clothes, a melting snow that soon began to chill him thoroughly. He broke his feeling of motionless notion and looked around his body to where the wet parts where, even though he could already feel them through his skin.

Kowalski sighed, took a deep breath, and started walking down a clear slope, seeing a bit of his parent's home sticking of the thick Maine forest. A fire came out of the old chimney, white smoke. Mother was making dinner.

The professor scratched the back of his head as he slowly limped his way to the house. His brother came bounding easily behind him, coming closer by the second. Kowalski had a right bit of trouble walking down the hill covered by snow, hardened by the boots that walked over it, spite his brother, Richard, who all, without ease, ran down the hill in a matter, half the time of his brother.

Kowalski wiped his mouth of falling snow , his tired eyes fixed on the ground before him, as well as the thin outline of the house, roughly planted on the ground and dead leaves and trees, already knowing of it because of witnessing the flooring of the house many years before. Lumber was cut there before the house was built, but the spot was forgotten and lost and the trees that where cut down, as well as their summer leaves, were left to rot.

He knew who as in the house already, mother was there, ever so close in bonds with the church, and his wife, his, what he thought, the most beautiful wife he could ever love, with the child just 5 months old. Ms. Doris Benton Kowalski and the little Joshua.

Kowalski's father was not there. Elder Kowalski would not be on the bed, sleeping, or going out in town with his friends at the bar. He was at the cemetery, laying his body the last time, feet under the surface. Died after drowning at sea, after what almost seemed to be an innocent fishing trip.

Kowalski was so young, yet to remembered so vividly, so innocently, so unfortunately. He could still see the storm that destroyed the small boat, turning it over, sinking it. He could still see his father, plagued with the water smashing into his face, the hard rain, his own family seeing him from the shore. His cries for help, drifting away, away from safety of the Maine shore. Only was he to be found, a week later, bloated, bloody, and dead with weight.

Kowalski swiped his nose, the winter cold was reaching him, and he wiped his eyes, the sadness.

He began to think of the snow underneath him, the sound he could not ignore, something that would get his mind of the father that left him behind. Kowalski thought of the lesson he lectured a week before, the lecture on snow. The words came back to his head so clearly, like his foggy breath in the cold.

'_Snow piles up by the flakes, spread out, yet thick enough see as solid. As it piles up, of course, the pile gets thicker, but squeeze or step on it, it gets hard. Why? Snow gets compressed together by force surrounding it, forcing it to be banded together, stronger, harder, more durable and compact. Just like a large force, connected and powerful, yet destroyable, a large military opposition that could be-' _he pictured himself in that classroom, thinking again that he actually drifted off on military knowledge, not science. Not what he was told to teach, what he volunteered for. Volunteers…

As he talked, Richard looked at him by a nearby tree, as he heard him mumbling about snow and soldiers.

Suddenly, Kowalski faltered, twisted, and grunted slightly as he slid his foot in an uncomfortable direction in wrong move down the snowy slope. With one badly executed sigh, he fell down on the snow, even in his already wet uncomfortable state that he was in presently. He put his hands to his head and breathed deeply.

Richard walked to him carrying both their rifles and applied to the sounds around them, "What are you sad on, Fitz? It was just one little slip up here in the snowy forest, no one can see you but us! You've got everything, a nice wife and a child. You're a big time college professor, earning a lot of money each month, well known, and has a good shooting brother!" he snickered.

Kowalski lifted his palms off his face. "You don't understand. You're only 18, you have a lot of time to think about what's in store for you, as for I… well, I…. I'm a…"

"Sad professor? Come on Fitz, let's visit ma".

"One thing".

"Yes?".

Don't call me Fitz".

Kowalski entered the small wooden home of his widowed mother with an odd expression, one person would give after being smacked in the face by a stranger. Doris chuckled lightly as she held carefully Joshua. The cabin smelled old and rusty, as his father left it. The house was ancient, belonged to his father, which belonged to his father, and to his father. The house had been there since the revolution against Britain, since Maine was a part of Massachusetts.

The floorboards creaked with each step, letting out bits of dust, he coughed. They all did. Richard wiped a tear of his face, knew he wasn't so impervious to the subject. Dust. Made him sneeze, cough, made him dry. Made him nearly mad once.

The house had tried it's best to stay stable. The old wooden boards and walls could only seldom keep the snow and wind out. When it rained, the dirt under the floor would smell, letting out the stench of wet dirt and mud and exposed worms and plants. It was only the wood that kept them apart. Nothing more.

The smell of the soup filled the cabin, replaced the smell of wet ground to hot, peppered both. _It was good_, Kowalski thought. Richard thought better. He loved his mother's soup, the peas and the carrots… excellent.

The bowls they received were tin. Clay or glass dishes were broken when Richard was born. The new child kept on breaking them, he stopped one day, after bitterly learning that smashing dishes weren't just not proper, but painful, as shown by a little reminder, a scar, on his forehead.

Though the two were not infants anymore, the new, Joshua, was already understanding what clay is and how fragile it may be. So in that sense, all dishes, cups, or pans used, must be tin. All the fragile-ware were put on the highest shelf.

Kowalski and Richard were given the same amount of soup, one spoon, and a glass of cider stored from a cellar under a separate shed. Richard drank first, but was scolded by the senior Mrs. Kowalski.

"Start us off, Fitz"

"Lord, we thank you for the food…"

Stopped, said his own silent prayer, everyone in the cabin did.

They opened their eyes, and looked at the food. Began to eat. Kowalski, slowly ate, small amounts, completely contrasted by Richard, who ate heartily, big spoonfuls, filling his mouth with the soup he loved. Home-cooking…. Brilliant.

Richard paused, took a moment to glance at his barely feeding brother. Smirked. He knew what he was going to do.

"Uh, Fitz… I don't think yoo' arr' gettin' the taste fer' ma's soup"

"What are you talking about?"

"I was jest mentionin' that it in't healthy to be a eatin' like that"

"An you are trying to infer…"

"Here". The younger brother stood, took pepper, garlic, and a bottle of whiskey over to the table.

The professor faltered. "Oh no…. you remembered what happened last time, you put the-"

"Shush" Richard hastily said as he poured nearly half the bottle of pepper, most of the garlic, and a pint of whiskey into his bowl of soup. Quietly paused. "Eat it"

"No, I will not eat it, Richard, I don't have the mood-"

The professor was interrupted by the pouring of an odd substance down his throat. It was the soup. More explosive. The newly spun entrée burned in his throat, like boiling water. It roasted his mouth, he screamed.

"No! Stop! Let go of his mouth!" their mother shouted at Richard, who was now well half way through pouring the substance down his brother's throat.

Richard stopped. Sighed. Exclaimed silently, _'Damn…'._

Kowalski choked, gagged, sore bloodshot eyes, a smile started on his face, for an odd reason. He took a sip of the cider and coughed. The smile ran away from his face in an instant. Put his palm to his forehead. Felt dizzy, very sober… his vision turned black.

'_The water was cold. Very cold. So was the air. He could see the mist beyond the sea. The cloudy black clouds, mixed with most gray. Felt the ominous feeling of a thunderstorm. The waves crashing to the shore. Tumbling rocks into the sea. Kowalski stood there. A the shore himself. Young. Unprepared. Saw his father on the boat, helplessly pleading for assistance that would never come. He cried. And suddenly, that wave took him over completely. He was gone"_

_The large crowd of blue, uniforms, brass buttons shining. Their hats cocked, a huge mass of soldiers. Disciplined. Yet, completely unaware. Trained, but not expecting for great defeat. They willed to fight for their country, to preserve it. But somewhere across a Potomac river, there was a smaller army. Ragged. Mostly untrained. They weren't willing just to fight for their country. They were willing to fight and die for it._

Kowalski woke up to the smell of warm medicine, his bedside lay a tin bowl of untainted soup. A glass of cider, and medicine.

Hehe. Fitz, you got pretty sick"

The professor didn't know what to do. He was angry at him, but the person on his bedside was his brother. Instead of negative retaliation, he smiled, well, tried to.

Suddenly, his smile disappeared. He spoke, as loud as he could, which was not a lot. Let everyone in the room hear.

"_I'm enlisting"_


End file.
